


Swingin' to the left

by nightstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Beer and Bacon Happy Hour, Fluff, M/M, Season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:22:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightstiel/pseuds/nightstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Castiel do go back to that beer and bacon happy hour a few miles back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swingin' to the left

“I find this place rather unsanitary, Dean.” Castiel looks around the diner with a frown on his face . Being an angel, could ingest the oldest fries from the most sleazy diner in America and not give a care, but he briefly ponders the toll it might have on Dean.

Dean, who cannot contain the excitement on his face, fidgeting with the menu, dragging his fingers down his chin and throwing Castiel nervous glances. It’s been a while since they went somewhere together to wind down, as friends, without a mission. Probably since the goddamn Apocalypse itself.

“Come on, Cas. It’s the spirit of American diners!” Truth is, Dean feels almost at home here. All over the years, diners have been a refuge, a haven; a beacon that kept him going through the darkest nights on the road, when even a cup of lukewarm coffee rang of the promise of heaven; a place of a warm meal and relief after a successful hunt, a moment in between to catch a breath. Much like motels, all alike, diners have been a certain constant in their upheaval of a life – there’s only so much variety of either red and white checkered tablecloth or bare tables before customers start complaining.

Dean finds this one really nice; it’s a plaid tablecloth place, with a wooden counter shielding the battery of whiskies and an odd streak of smoke weaving its way between the tables. There’s a pool table in the far corner, and Dean decides this is the night he teaches Cas pool hustling.

Castiel still shifts uncomfortably in his chair, nursing a cool beer, flaying away the etiquette from the bottle. “Angels are creatures of ordnance. This place is anything but,” he says, eyes flicking between customers, scrutinising waitresses hands as they jot down the orders. “I can assure you the oil in the kitchen has been simmering since last week.”

This doesn’t seem to deter Dean, who perks up at the approaching waitress.

“You lovebirds ready?” she mutters, tight-lipped and tired. She taps her notepad and Castiel looks at Dean tentatively; this woman should get a root canal treated as soon as possible before one of her teeth starts rotting completely but Dean shakes his head, curtly. People don’t appreciate being told they have cancer from a random guy at a diner, he had told him last time. It does more harm than good.

“That will be two beer and bacon happy hours, sweetheart.” Dean beams a smile at her, handing the menu back. “And pie. Apple and... what do you want, Cas?”

This catches Castiel off-guard. He’s been watching Dean closely until now, ascertaining his facial hair has grown approximately one millimeter since late morning; taking in how at ease Dean seems now that his initial nervousness has worn off, leaning back in his chair and gracing him with a look tinted with what Castiel thinks – hopes – is fondness. In this light, Dean looks younger and happier, and the angle of his jaw as he turned to speak with the waitress breathtakingly sharp. It has proven to have been very distracting and a greased menu could hardly compete with that. He scrambles his mind in panic; what does he want? He is not aware of other types of pie but he recalls a song playing earlier in the car. Dean loved it, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and started to sing along by the moment the song came on the radio. By the second chorus, he had Castiel hollering with him, barely audible over the turned-up volume.

“Cherry?” he offers, and the waitress does not object; she flicks her pen on her worn-out notebook and walks away.

“Good choice, Cas,” Dean compliments him with a wink, fingers curling around his bottle and slumps his shoulders, letting some more tension out. “Never as good as apple though.”

Castiel shrugs. “I fail to see why apple is a pastry filling superior to cherry.”

“Trust me, it just is. I might give you a bite if you won’t take my word for it—was that a fucking eyeroll, Cas?!” And Dean cannot suppress the swelling pride—it’s something Cas has learned from him and he learned it damn well.

This thing, this moment with Cas feels rare and perfect. He remembers what the angel once said, _I wish circumstances were different._ That’s probably the only thing Dean would wish for if he could – a different reality for Sam, and Cas and himself. Maybe they would still meet, bump into each other in the street. Maybe Dean would nearly run Cas over with his car, given his driving habits and Castiel’s carelessness for himself and maybe they would still end up here, in this dingy diner.

It’s easy to get lost in this train of thought, in what ifs and woulds like this, with Castiel staring at him over his bottle, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips; staring back when the angel looks around and discovers intimate information about people and when his fingers tap to a familiar song that seeps from the jukebox, a memory from another roadtrip. Dean waves his hand and orders two more beers; in between, their food arrives and Dean laughs loudly at Cas squinting at the bacon, sniffing it with suspicion, smiling like a fool when Castiel’s melts in bliss on the first bite nevertheless. The buzz of alcohol is pleasant and Cas seems closer than usual, feet bumping awkwardly under the table. At some point, napkins turn out to be a highly coveted item, their fingers brushing not once, but three times; and Dean cannot decide if Castiel’s boldness is a ruse or a genuine thing when instead of taking the goddamn fork from Dean’s hand when he graciously offers him a piece of his pie, he just eats the pastry off of it.

Castiel isn’t exactly sure if apple is truly superior as a general rule, but he does concede it tastes better consumed this way, which makes Dean turn a deeper shade of red and ask for the bill.

They walk back to the car, laughing, and Dean throws an arm around him; a reminiscent of a night several years ago but Castiel wants it to be different, better; so he takes Dean’s hand, resting on his shoulder because it feels right, even if Dean falls silent for exactly 3.06 seconds after that.

“I understand why that was a happy hour, Dean. Though I am fairly sure we have exceeded the allotted time limit by 58 minutes.”

“Cas, it’s not—“ Dean chuckles, resting against the hood of the Impala, arm still holding on to his friend. “They don’t make you pay if you’re happy for another hour.” He smiles, breathes in the cool night air, Cas a warm presence by his side and his baby ready to go for a fast, night drive.( Cas has already agreed to be a lucky charm slash guardian angel.)

It’s the happiest hour he’s had in a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Cherry Pie" by Warrant. Titles are hard.


End file.
